Clair de Lune
by Youko-Kokuryuuha
Summary: The week, the moments, in which Gretel lived, loved, and died. A string of interwoven drabbles.
1. the blue light

Disclaimer: The Mortal Insturments series and all related merchandise belong to their perspective owners—blasé legal spiel.

A/N: The first of five. Written to Debussy's "Clair de Lune," Beethoven's "Moonlight Sonata," and Uematsu's "To Zanarkand."

* * *

**Clair de Lune**

* * *

o  
_The first Movement:  
La lumi__è__re bleue_

_

* * *

_

Oh God. Gabriel. He killed Gabriel.

It was the only thing I could think as the wolf prowled towards me, limping, his fur matted with crimson. Even as I watched, his body rippled and twisted, the fur bristling and thinning, the bared, yellow canines retracting back into his mouth.

And all the while, the wolf's blue eyes stayed trained on me—and for some reason, I found myself unable to look away. They were demanding, seeking my attention, imploring me to heed them, to train my gaze to their soft blue depths. And I complied.

He was a man now, his bestial form shed. But there was still something predatory in those gleaming eyes, something wolfish in the lines of his face.

But he was handsome. That much I could see. And even as he brushed away the dust deposited on his jacket from the earlier grapple, his small steps loud on the concrete floor, I could tell that there was no arrogance in his stride. No haughtiness, no pride. Only a gentle kindness, and a fierceness to protect belying it.

All this, I observed as he paced slowly within the circle of the pack, dozens of eyes fixed on him. Out of all of them, his gaze seemed to snap to me, as if I were more significant, more important. His blue eyes glinted in the dimly lit darkness as he smiled.

"My name is Lucian Graymark. I'll be your new pack leader."


	2. drink to honor

**Clair de Lune**

* * *

o  
_The second Movement:  
Boire __à__ l'honneur_

* * *

The corridors were filled with chatter, abuzz with merriment. Tonight, we would welcome our new pack leader with a feast. Tonight, we would eat and drink in his honor. We would cheer his reign and wish him prosperity.

Tonight, we would celebrate Gabriel's death.

I knew the rules, of course. Kill the pack leader and then replace him. It was simply the way things worked. It wouldn't have been the first time—I'd been there when Gabriel had killed Veronique.

But that didn't make the celebrations any less callous. It didn't make them any less wrong or cruel, didn't—

"Oof!"

I looked up and realized that I'd walked headlong into Alaric. His hands were filled with bags, brown and papery, and three boxes marked _Domino's_ teetered precariously atop his head. He grinned down at me.

"Do you want to help me out?"

I rolled me eyes as he crouched low enough for me to snatch the boxes of meat and saucy bread from his head. "For the 'banquet' tonight, I assume?"

"Of course. Everyone is helping with the preparations to honor Lucian. Something _you_ should be helping us with, by the way," he added, and scowled at me.

"Don't chide me, Alaric," I sighed. "I'm hardly a pup. This day is only a reminder of _that_." Alaric's scowl lightened fractionally.

"Alright. I won't pester you. Just..._act_ like are helping, then." And he stalked away, swaying under the weight of his load. Shaking my head, I followed.

-

The scent of the food was overpowering. It wafted upon the air, filling my nostrils, coaxing me seductively to sneak a bite before the festivities began. I resisted. Barely.

The spread was delectable. Everything from pizzas to Danish pastries, from steaks to ice-creams, noodles to scones—and back again. Bottles of bubbly liquids dotted the tabletop (which, incidentally, we'd inconspicuously stolen from the warlocks down the street and then vehemently denied all claims of having been involved).

Had we been vampires—I shuddered at the thought, a wave of nausea rolling over me—we would have been gorging on the blood of innocents and garbed in uncomfortable, wholly unnecessary formal attire. As it was, we were _not_ Children of the Night, and so we would enjoy junk food and lounge about in our worn jeans and tattered shirts. It was better that way.

There was talk in the air, conversations spouted over even louder ones as everyone attempted to be heard.

But I hardly noticed any of them.

This night was the anniversary of my Change.

I struggled with that, tried to decide if it was something to celebrate or mourn. Surely, in some ways, it qualified as both.

My fingers dug into the side of my armchair, my other hand filled with a mug of fizzing drink. This was the night I'd lost everything, the night I'd lost my life and gained another; this was the night I'd died and been reborn.

_Is it always a mixed feeling like this for all of our kind?_ I wondered. It was hard to believe that. But I didn't want to be alone with my grief and euphoria, my overwhelming—

"Thank you."

Though his voice was soft, I heard it the most clearly. All the din seemed to fall away as Lucian Graymark spoke. _Lucian_... It was a strong name.

"I couldn't be any more thankful to all of you for being so gracious with accepting me," he continued. The sound of his voice was deep, alluring. I watched him pace before the pack, giving voice to his promises and intents. Faintly, I head the word 'Valentine.' The sound of the vile name sent a shiver down my spine. But I was more fixated on _him_.

The measure of his steps were even, consistent, as if attesting his claim of being reliable and constant. His back was broad, muscled, packed with sinews hidden by his worn jacket.

His hair was tousled, and his chin marked by a small plume of stubble. The skin of his mouth was pink, stretched over full lips; I imagined they were soft. He was attractive, I suppose, and there was a certain strength and confidence that he gave off. I wanted to fill myself up with it, devour it whole until it beamed inside of me like my own personal moon.

But there had been something else I'd noticed the night before, when he'd walked away from Gabriel's maimed and bloody body and fixed me with his stare. Something had pulsed behind those blue eyes, behind the honesty and kindness. There was pain there, remorse and regret screaming out at me that almost seemed to mirror my own. His blue eyes were kindred to mine.

His blue eyes were staring at me intently.

"Will you accept my offer of second, Gretel?"

All eyes were turned to me, piercing and expectant, and yet Lucian didn't seem to notice them; he only saw me. I stared back into his eyes, saw the coursing grief pulsing like so much life in the blue.

I tightened my hold on my cup's handle. "I will." And I raised it to my lips and drank.


	3. the silver moon

**Clair de Lune**

* * *

o  
_The third Movement:  
L'argent lune_

* * *

The lights overhead flickered feebly as I walked the hallways, leaving the corridors partially plunged in darkness and partially illuminated by golden light. The cold cell doors on either side of me seemed to rattle, as if reminding me that this place was both my home and my prison; the place I always returned to and yet the place I could never truly leave.

I'd always hated this place. Could never understand why Gabriel had chosen it.

Not that I detested being what I was, what I was made into. It would be a lie, of course, to say that I hadn't hated it at first, being a werewolf. I still awoke at night sometimes, a cold sweat dripping along my back and plastering my hair to my skin as I recalled those first agonizing months.

My first transformation. It always came to me in a dream. I could still hear the ragged breathing escaping from my muzzle, as if it were from far away, from a person unlike me entirely. I remembered being disoriented, wild and crazed and frantic that I was losing my mind. I'd become delirious, on the verge of hysteria, cowering at the thought of the full moon.

I'd been...afraid. Afraid of the pain. I'd been afraid of the way my bones crackled and popped under the surface of my skin, terrified at the sudden predatory light in my grey eyes. And I'd been afraid of the pain I could cause to others. Of the blood that had been on my hands after that first night—

I shook my head, my golden locks falling out of my face. I had a tendency to dwell on the less pleasant parts of my Change.

I came to the end of the hall and grabbed the knob of the small, rickety door, before turning it and pushing the door open; its hinges creaked. My hand searched absentmindedly for the switch on the wall as I stepped into the darkness, until the lights flickered on with the satisfying -_click!_- of plastic between my fingers.

It was a small room, modest, but it was mine. A bed occupied the far corner, a vanity and a stool the other. It was neat, far neater than Alaric's—if the pile of filthy clothing littering his floor was any indication. A part of me was, admittedly, glad that Lucian had sent him on that mission to watch the Nephilim girl; that way, he'd be hard pressed to make a sty out of my room as well.

I smiled slightly at the silly thought as I plopped down on the stool. It was where I came to think, to reflect. And to remember.

Two grey eyes gazed back at me out of the mirror. "How tired you look," I mused. My fingers scrabbled along the vanity's wooden surface until they met with the cool metal casing sitting just at the mirror's edge, the box cast from gold. I popped open the catch.

It was still lovely, my mother's gift. The gleaming links that looped the necklace together winked at me, as if daring me to touch them. The heavy locket, embroidered and adorned with flourishing designs and carvings on the edges, was perfectly round and circular—a small token of the moon.

And it was made of silver.

There was irony in this somewhere, I was sure.

Everyday, it served as a reminder to what once was. To the balls and galas, the parties and heady wine, the intoxicating perfumes and the dark allure of taken men. That was the life I'd once lived; the life that was gone.

I could still recall the dress I'd been wearing the night it'd happen. The swirls of dark blue and sapphire were still vivid against my eyelids, the sweet of wine still fresh on my lips.

But, perhaps, what I remembered most clearly was my mother's locket, looped tightly about my neck and tucked into my corset. I could still see its sheen, still feel the unbearable pain as the silver smouldered against my skin as I lay writhing in agony under the moon.

My hand rose to my chest. There was a perfectly circular-shaped scar just above my left breast, I knew. A reminder I carried with me of my scrape with silver; a reminder of the night I could hardly forget—

"Am I interrupting something?"

I stiffened at the words. Of course I knew Lucian's voice—better than my own, I sometimes thought—but the silence with which he'd crept into my room had startled me. I sighed and turned on the stool—

Only to find his face inches from mine.

His intense blue eyes were focused on me, boring into mine and screaming at me. His breath faintly stirred a few of my blonde ringlets. And his lips. They were only a breadth away now, just close enough to kiss...

I looked away.

"No, master," I murmured. "I was only reminiscing."

He sighed exasperatedly. "I wish you wouldn't call me that. Luke's just fine."

"But that would be disrespectful to your title as pack leader," I pointed out. "I wouldn't want to be that."

He ran a hand through his hair. "Fine. But not...'master.' Something less formal, maybe?"

I pressed a finger to my pursed lips in a playful gesture. "How about 'sir,' then?"

Lucian laughed. The sound sent a tingling warmth through my body, and I didn't even know why. "You're impossible. But 'sir' it is." He leaned back, paced backwards a bit to prop himself against the vanity's side.

"So was there something you wanted to discuss?" I played with a coil of my hair as I awaited his response. At my words, he broke his gaze from mine and looked down.

"No, not anything important, not really. You just seemed...distant, last night. Uneasy."

I let my hand fall to my lap. "Distant?" I repeated. So he'd caught my inattentiveness during the festivities the previous night. How perceptive of him. I sighed and rested my elbow against the vanity, put my chin to the palm of my hand. "I suppose you could say that. It was the anniversary of my Change, and I was reliving some of the more...unpleasant memories."

Something flitted behind his eyes, but he only said, "I see." I knew what he was thinking: he wouldn't push me for the story, he'd let me tell it to him if and when I was ready. And for some reason, I felt like I could trust him, like I could divulge my past to him without shame or fear of ridicule. I licked my lips.

"It was the night of my sister's wedding. Everyone was drunk and elated, dancing and laughing. The ballroom was packed with foreign men and women who I'd never seen, never dreamed I'd meet and yet who were only too happy to talk with me. I danced more that night than I have any other in my life. So it's appropriate, I think, that that was the night that life ended.

"I was attacked by a wolf when I went outside to the garden to rest by the fountain. I didn't hear it coming; the only thing I heard was the bubbling of the glass sculptures and the swaying of the shrubs. That's when it happened—when it leapt out of the bushes and tore at my wrists. It left me for dead, bleeding myself dry over the crystal, and out of my mind with pain.

"There was a full moon that night, so the changes happened quickly. The first thing I felt in my new life was the white hot burning of my silver necklace against my chest, forcing screams of agony from me. And then I felt the crunching and popping of my bones, heard the tears of my dress coming apart...and then I awoke the next morning, covered in scratches and blood and dirt."

I stopped there, waiting for him to say something, to say _anything_, but he only held my eyes softly with his. I wanted to stare into those eyes, learn what went on behind them. They were like the ocean, calm and unreadable on the surface, giving no quarter to the turmoils of its depths—

"Gretel." My head snapped up at my name. "Did you hear me? I asked if this is the necklace." His fingers, worn and calloused, were pointing toward the open gold box. I nodded imperceptibly.

"It was my mother's," I said, "before it was mine." I slid the box over to him so that he could peer at it closely. "There's an inscription written on the front and another on the inside cover."

Lucian fingered the stubble under his chin. "Looks like French. What does it say?"

"_Pour ma fille, qui brille comme la lune_—for my daughter, who shines like the moon," I told him. "The inner inscription reads, _parce que la nuit est toujour belle_—because the night is still beautiful."

His eyes darkened. Clearly, I wasn't the only one who saw the dark humor and irony of the trinket.

"I was a vain, superficial, naïve little girl in my old life," I sighed. "I was a terrible person who cared only for wealth and status and parties. Such was the life of Gretel Duvaine." I turned from him and took up my brush, running it through the tangled knots of my hair. "And what of you, ma—sir? Who was Lucian Graymark in the life before this?"

Perhaps it was a trick of the light, or simply a result of seeing his reflection in the mirror, but I saw his eyes harden, saw the openness leave his face and the sheltered façade fix itself into place like a mask. His jaw locked.

"Someone best forgotten."


	4. touching the stars

**Clair de Lune**

* * *

o  
_The fourth Movement:  
Toucher les étoiles_

* * *

"I was a Shadowhunter."

The squeaky rubber ball I'd been toying with slipped from my hands.

"W–_what_?"

Immediately, his face turned contrite, and for that I was sorry.

I was leaning against the edge of the bare desk that served as Lucian's base of operations. Papers, scribbled with names I vaguely recognized—Raphael, Valentine, Lightwood—were scattered over its surface.

"I-I'm sorry, sir," I said. "I don't think I heard you." Because I'd heard him say 'Shadowhunter,' heard him confess to once being _Nephilim_, the bane of all Downworlders.

"You really don't have to call me that," he said. I looked down at him, at his face that had seemed to grow so much more tired with the passing days, and troubled my lip with my teeth. He rubbed his temples, as if to ward off his troubles.

"You asked me, a few nights ago, who Lucian Graymark was in the life before this one. He was a Shadowhunter, Gretel. He was Nephilim. And he was rotten and disgusting to the core."

I frowned, feeling my brow furrow. He spoke of being rotten, and yet I could never see him as that. He was too kind, too valiant and considerate for that. "I don't—"

"I was Valentine's righthand man."

He looked up at me, his eyes pleading, as if begging me to understand; as if my acceptance of him mattered. My heart skipped a beat at the thought.

He told me then. He spilt his life story to me, the words tumbling out of his mouth hurriedly as if he were afraid he'd never again summon the courage to tell me them. And so I listened. I never divvied my attention from him; I only watched his face and listened to his voice. There was something about it, something in the raw, unrestrained suffering that bled with his words. It was frightening, heartbreaking...and oddly comforting in its familiarity.

When he finished, his eyes snapped to mine expectantly. I swallowed.

"What do you want me to say?" I whispered. "What do you want to hear?"

"Only the truth," he assured me. "I'd _like_ to hear that you're not disgusted with me, that you don't resent the person I once was, but I only _want_ the truth. I want you to tell me how you feel. About all of it."

I studied his face briefly. "Mystified?" I offered. "It's an incredulous story."

Lucian clenched his fingers, his veins blue against the back of his hand. "So you don't believe me?"

"I never said—"

He stood suddenly, paced around the desk to face me. And then he turned from me and pulled his shirt over his head, exposing the bare skin of his back.

I wanted to tell him to stop, to complain that it was indecent of him to show so much skin to me...but instead I only stared.

His back was scarred beyond anything I'd ever seen on a living Downworlder. There were the faint traces and thin lines that told the stories of swords and claws, of daggers and spears. But there was something else to the scars, something underlying them.

He was Marked. His back was covered in the swirling designs of the Nephilim, decorated with the patterns and shapes attributed to the Angel. They didn't exhibit a silver sheen like those on regular Shadowhunters; they were dull, plain, no different from regular scars except in their form. But I knew they were genuine.

Hesitantly, I raised my hand to a Mark that resembled a star and traced it with my fingers. The muscle of Lucian's back tightened slightly, but he said nothing. So I continued to trace the patterns, to trail the canvas of forgotten Marks with my fingertips. They were lovely, in a feral, savage sort of way, proclaiming feats of courage and bravery.

Finally, I let out a shuddering breath and let my hand fall free from the markings. Lucian lowered his shirt and turned back to face me.

"So what do you say, Gretel? What do you think of me? Of the man I was?"

I bit my lip, looking anywhere but at his face as thoughts ran rampant in my head. Lucian, _my _Lucian—for he was indeed the head of my pack—was a werewolf. And yet he had been Nephilim, determined to slaughter all Downworlders and purge the world of them. That frightened me more than I was willing to admit.

He stepped toward me, impossibly close, the heat of his breath warm on my forehead. He swept my hair out of my eyes and put his hands to the sides of my face, his fingertips brushing just beneath my ears. The feel of them on my skin made me shiver. My lips parted slightly, waiting.

"Why are you asking _me_ this?" I whispered. Because I didn't understand why he'd chosen me to confess to out of all the others.

"Because I trust you, Gretel. Because I knew you'd understand my remorse and regret better than anyone else. You were the only person like me. The only person I could spill my heart to."

I wondered if he could feel the frantic beating of my heart. But then, he would still notice the blush creeping along my cheeks, wouldn't he? I tried to look away, but his hands, soft on either side of my jaw, insisted I look at him.

And his eyes were still vibrant. Still blue and pulsing and anguished and gorgeous.

"There's nothing for you to be remorseful about," I murmured. "Who you _were_ doesn't tarnish the man you are." I closed my eyes to shut myself off from his demanding gaze and leaned into his palm. "You're still Lucian to me."

And then I felt his hands leave my face and his arms wrap around me in an embrace.

"Thank you," he sighed shakily; the words were fervent and relieved. "Gretel...for so long I've been looking for forgiveness that I wasn't sure I'd ever find it. I owe you more than just words of comfort—I owe you my soul."

He lingered only for a moment longer, and then he released me and strode to the door, letting it swing shut behind him without a backward glance. I stood there, stunned, in the aftermath.

_L'amour et la mort_, my mother used to always say. I knew this was a man I would follow into death.

And I knew that I loved him.


	5. love and death

**Clair de Lune**

* * *

o  
_The fifth Movement:  
L'amour et la mort_

* * *

Nephilim.

The smell of her filled the station, permeated through the walls. Just a whiff of her violently orange hair sent snarls ripping their way out from my throat, made my nails grow long and clawed. My canines were kissing my bottom lip, urging me to attack her, to rip the flesh from her limbs—

But Lucian cared for her.

At the sight of her still, injured form, his eyes gleamed with concern, his lips tightening with worry. I knew who she was, of course—he'd already confessed to me everything he had to confess. She was the daughter of his most precious friend, the Shadowhunter woman for whose fate he took the blame—the woman he'd failed.

I wanted to kill this little girl. She was a living, breathing reminder of the sins of his past, of the failure that was so deeply entwined with his pain. She represented the last traces of Nephilim that haunted him: the screams in his dreams, the hallowed look in his eyes, the haunting expression on his face—things he had only shared with me. So a part of me plotted, treacherously, to kill this innocent Nephilim girl, to end Lucian's pain.

But he cared for her. To kill her would be to kill him. And I could never do that.

The girl, Clary, Lucian had called her, had brought more than his past with her. She had also brought him relief, eased some of the anxiety from his tensed shoulders, sparked hope in his eyes. I knew that she was important to him, that her well-being made him sigh with relief.

"Are you sure?" I asked him. It was dark in the prison corridor now—Alaric had forgotten to pay the warlocks for the lights again. I hugged my arms to myself and leaned against the cell bars. Just across the isle, the Nephilim girl slept, unconscious.

"I am," he told me firmly. When his eyes glowed so brightly like that in the darkness, it was hard to doubt him. "I've been worried all this time. I kept thinking..." He shut his eyes, let out a shuddering breath.

"So now you'll plan the assault? Hunt down Valentine?"

He nodded, and I felt his hands settle on the crook of my shoulders. "Yes. But this is _my_ fight, Gretel. I won't ask you to drag yourself on this suicide mission with me."

I almost wanted to laugh at that. A wry smile twisted my lips as a chorus of chuckles bubbled up from my chest. "You don't have to, sir. I won't allow you to go without me."

He smiled all over his face, eyes beaming. "Gretel," he laughed. "Only you." A hand swept through his hair, pushing it out of his eyes. "So we'll go then. Together."

His hands left me and he retreated to the girl's cell, leaning against the rock wall as he waited for her like a silent sentinel. And then I turned and walked away.

The warmth. I could still feel the warmth of his hands sinking into my collar bones. It was a pleasant feeling, the blood there coursing, a sort of thrum, like a second heart.

_Together_, he'd said.

Yes. We'd walk into battle together, his heart held in mine.

-

The chilly wind whipped through my hair; it was icy, flailing the golden strands around me. The castle, rising up out of the night's gloom like a daunting stone shadow, seemed to sneer down at me, taunting me.

Something felt...sinister, about the air. There was an acrid, bitter taste to it, filling my mouth and bleeding onto my tongue. It made my nerves stand on end and sweat prickle my brow. I knew the smell, the foul, reeking scent that wafted in the breeze over the grassy field.

Forsaken.

The rotting corpses of mundies turned to damnation; the soulless heathens bent on destruction, bent on death and screams and horror and blood...

I wiped my sweaty palms on my jeans.

I shouldn't have been afraid. The moon, bright and full and golden in the sky, seemed to fill me up, seemed to make me rich of its luminance. I could feel it pulsing through me, the moonlight welcome on my numb, tingling skin. I shouldn't have been afraid at all.

But I was.

Lucian, only a short distance away, seemed so helpless with the Nephilim girl so close to his side. He couldn't transform, couldn't fend for himself. I wished that I were nearer, that I could be closer to him, to protect him...But I would have to do it from afar. I would protect this man, the man that I loved, as if he were the very bones of my soul. No harm would come to him, and I'd have sworn it on my life if anyone had been willing to hear it.

So, naturally, I was the first to notice them. The Forsaken, lumbering down the hill like the clumsy beasts they were.

"FORSAKEN!"

And, naturally, Alaric was the first to make it known.

The entire pack became a roiling mass of fur and sinews and bared teeth, snarls ripping from ours throats. The first Forsaken stepped forward, and then Alaric lunged into the fray, pulling the entire pack with him.

I don't entirely recall what happened after that. I can only remember loping over the wet, blood-slicked grass, my paws slipping over the black dampness, as I tried to keep Lucian's back within view. Because I wouldn't leave him alone, I wouldn't abandon him. I would stay by his side and protect him with everything that I had.

So, I think, that's why I did what I did.

My howl pierced the night air when I saw the Forsake rushing him, streaking towards his exposed back. I saw its large knife, the steel glinting sinisterly in the moonlight. It raised it over its head, preparing to plunge it into Lucian's back...

And I lunged.

The Nephilim girl gave a sort of surprised shout when she realized what was happening. Lucian's eyes connected with mine as I hurtled past him...and then I was on top of the Forsaken, my fangs deep in its throat.

The taste was..._sickening_. Like rotting flesh allowed to sit too long under the hot sun before it was buried. And it was cold, the pearly white skin clammy in pallor. I tried to keep the thought of it away as we grappled, tried to forgot its bitter scent and revolting flavor...but I couldn't. I gagged on it, my hold slackening for only a moment as I tried to force the sick back down my throat. For only a moment.

But it was enough.

I felt the Forsaken's clumsy hands close around me in my dizziness and rip me from its throat, before it flung me bodily across the field. I skidded in the grass, the black blood wetting my coat—and then it was on top of me.

The Forsaken smiled gleefully, the blade it its corpse-like hands gleaming wickedly. I could feel my heart racing now, pounding painfully against my side as I tried to scramble away. But I couldn't. The Forsaken brought its foot down, hard, on my hind-legs—I felt the bones snap.

Somewhere, in the distance, someone was screaming my name.

So I lay there, panting fearfully, clawing feebly, as the blade came down, as it gouged into the skin of my back. Once. Twice. Thrice. I lost count after so many...

And then I heard a bloodcurdling scream.

Suddenly, the smell of the Forsaken was gone. The night air was fresh again, cool against my slowly thinning fur. I let out a gasping breath as the pain hit me, as I lay, soft and fragile and human again, against the blood-wet grass. And then I started to cry. But they weren't tears of pain or sorrow—they were tears of joy.

Lucian was crouched above me.

Dirt streaked his hair, black blood glistened from the sides of his face, and red scrapes kissed his neck—but I almost forgot to notice these things. His eyes, still so soft and blue, were wide with grief and fear. His arms took me in them, cradled me against his chest.

I could feel his heart beating against mine, warm and comforting and real.

"Gretel! _Gretel_! Stay with me, Gretel!"

I smiled softly as his hands caressed my face, stroked my cheeks, coaxing me in vain to live on. And even as I died, even as I faded into the fathomless blackness, I thought of only one person, uttered only one word:

"_Lucian_."

And his name was sweet on my lips.


End file.
